


Turn Off Your Tears (and Listen)

by HomebodyNobody



Category: The 100 (TV), The 100 Series - Kass Morgan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bartender!Bellamy, Bellamy loves his dog and his best friend and it's adorable, F/M, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Oops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-12
Updated: 2015-07-12
Packaged: 2018-04-09 00:58:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4327782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HomebodyNobody/pseuds/HomebodyNobody
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"we're best friends and oops my dog might love you more than me" au </p><p>OR </p><p>Clarke shows up on Bellamy's doorstep in tears, and this is the night that everything changes</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turn Off Your Tears (and Listen)

**Author's Note:**

> This took me a long time to write and I think it's pretty decent, but I have always sucked at friends-to-lovers so someone tell me if this sucks. (also there may be continuity errors involving Bellamy's job I wrote this over the course of a week I apologize)
> 
> Title from "The Heart of Life" by John Mayer

The knock came at 2 AM.

Bellamy was perfectly asleep, cocooned in his duvet with the fan blowing gently in the background. His work took every ounce of his energy these days, and with the temperatures as high as they were lately, it was rare he ever got a good night’s sleep. So when Clarke Griffin started pounding on his door in the wee hours, he was understandably upset.

It took a couple knocks, but eventually, Bellamy stumbled out of bed wearing a t-shirt and a tattered pair of basketball shorts, cursing and tripping over Andromeda, who yelped in betrayed pain. “Sorry, Andy,” he mumbled, rubbing her ears. His dog got up and followed him through the living room to the door, panting affably. Bellamy smiled down at her, scrubbing a hand over his face and fumbling with the lock before opening the door, squinting into the bright light of the hallway. “Hello?”

The response was not words but a dry sob. Clarke stood in the hall, bedraggled and soaked in tears and sweat, sky-blue eyes wide in supplication. Makeup streaked down her face, mascara and eyeliner harsh against her pale skin, her fancy cocktail dress sparkling under the bright lights. A wave of defensive anger rose in Bellamy’s chest. “Clarke,” he said, his voice low and heavy, “What happened?”

“Finn --” she choked out, “He --” she laughed, the sound mirthless and abrasive in the empty space. “He cheated on me.” Bellamy’s hands curled into fists at his sides, and he fought to contain his angry outburst; she clearly wasn’t done. “Except he wasn’t really cheating on me,” she went on, the words tumbling out of her mouth, tripping over each other with emotion, “He was cheating on _her_. With me.” She looked down, a small sob escaping her trembling lips. “He’s _engaged_.” Bellamy stepped out into the hall and drew her shaking frame into his arms, her tears hot on his broad shoulders as he smoothed his hands over her hair, up and down her back. “I can’t go back, Bellamy,” she mumbled against him, “He has a key, he’ll be there, I can’t --” she broke off into another sob. He kissed her forehead and wrapped his arms around her waist, holding her tightly. “Please don’t make me go home,” she whispered, sounding so much like a tired child it nearly snapped his heart in two.

‘

In answer, he walked backwards into the apartment, pulling her with him. “Of course,” he said, stepping back but not completely releasing her. The look of relief on her face tugged at his heart, and he reached up to hold her chin between two fingers. Tilting her face from side to side, he smiled softly. “Go get cleaned up. I’ll find you some clothes.” Clarke buried her face in his neck, whispering grateful, tearful thank yous into his skin. Finally letting go, she left for the bathroom, and Bellamy sighed, closing the door and dropping his head against it. He was in way too over his head.

*****

It’d started practically the day he met her. He’d been working the bar at Grounders, and Octavia had glided through the doors, dragging a short, solemn-looking blonde by the elbow. His sister propped her elbows up on the bar, ordered, and then disappeared off into the dancing throng. The other girl slid onto a stool and stayed there, nursing an amber and flipping off every dudebro who dared come near. She also overheard his [shouted] conversation with Kyle Wick about international politics and jumped in immediately, eyes gleaming. They talked all night, eventually pushing Wick out of the conversation in favor of wild gesticulation and accusatory fingers. Each left angry, yet smiling.

He was kind of screwed, after that.

He spent a hot second hitting on her, but after she explained Finn, Bellamy quite respectfully backed off. For a while, they were merely acquaintances, but then Octavia moved in with Lincoln across town, and Wells took a job in DC, and suddenly, Bellamy was the one she came to about most everything. He hadn’t realized it until about a year ago, when she’d walked directly into his apartment, laid down on the floor in his foyer, and sighed.

It spoke to their friendship that he barely looked up from where he was grading at the kitchen table. (In addition to the bar, he also worked as a professor’s assistant at the local university.) “I would ask what’s wrong, but frankly, I’m more concerned with the fact that you have a key.”

Clarke propped herself up on her elbows. “Octavia made me a copy when she moved. We figured you would need checking up on.”

Bellamy returned to his papers, marking a few questions wrong. “Says the girl laying in the middle of my floor.” She snickered and laid spread-eagle across the cold wood boards. They stayed silent for an odd moment before he sighed and removed his glasses, rubbing his hands over his face. “Alright, princess,” he said, (the nickname came from their first conversation, when Clarke had ripped Bellamy apart on the effectiveness of the monarchical system) “What’s wrong?”

“I’m hiding,” she replied nonchalantly.

“From?”

“My mother.”

She’d explained the complicated situation more than once before, and he decided not to get involved. “Ah,” Bellamy nodded, put on his glasses and picked up his pen.

 

Later that evening, as she nodded off on his shoulder in front of the Godfather II, he’d asked why she’d come to him, of all people. “You’re my best friend,” she’d sleepily explained.

“What about Finn?” he’d asked, keeping his voice low, so as not to startle her.

“Finn and me…” she trailed off, picking at the quilt in her lap. “It’s just different, I guess.” Bellamy slung an arm over her shoulder and pulled her close. She buried her face in his shirt, appreciating the wordless comfort.

*****

Wordless comfort, it turned out, was something Bellamy ended up providing a lot. Clarke treated Bellamy’s apartment as a sanctuary, and he’d often find her on his couch after a late shift, sketching, watching TV or sleeping. (Her roommate, Echo, apparently was prone to loud parties and irritating friends.)

The sound of the shower shutting off jerked him out of his memories, and he walked into his bedroom, leaving clean clothes on his bedspread, making sure to pick out his Ramones t-shirt, the one she always stole out of his closet. Andy was sitting outside the bathroom, staring expectantly at the door. Bellamy smiled and rubbed her head, not the least bit hurt when she barely acknowledged his presence. (He wasn’t sure how she managed it, but Clarke had basically stolen his dog’s affection; however, he was sure it involved bacon.) Clarke joined him in the living room a few minutes later, blond hair freshly dried and curly, looking adorably swamped in his clothes, Andy padding in behind her. Bellamy’s heart flipped over in his chest at the sight.

She tugged on the hem of her shirt, hunching her shoulders up by her ears. “I know,” she said, smiling sadly, “I’m a mess.”

Bellamy closed his jaw, which he hadn’t realized had fell open. “No,” he said hurriedly, “No you don’t, you look --” he felt a crooked smile perch on his face, “you’re adorable.”

She plopped down next to him on the couch and slapped his arm. “You’re incorrigible.” her voice was light, but her shoulders heavy, and she dropped her head against him. Andy whined, Clarke rubbed her head, smiling at her big brown eyes. The golden retriever flopped down next to the coffee table, resentful that they wouldn’t let her on the couch.

Bellamy swung his arm around Clarke’s shoulders and pulled her in tight. “You’ll be okay, Clarke,” he said into her hair, hating the butterflies in his stomach when she wrapped an arm around his chest and cuddled into him. Their physical contact wasn’t anything new, and he shouldn’t be excited just because she was newly available.  “You’re better than him, princess.”

“I know,” she said, her voice muffled by his shirt, “but I thought -- I thought maybe this was it, you know? Finn seemed like he was getting serious and I was just so excited to have him move in and have him around all the time and then…”

“And then?” Bellamy prompted.

Clarke sighed against his chest, and sat up to explain, kneeling and sitting back on her heels. She locked eyes with him before she began, and something odd happened in his throat. (He had an embarrassing habit of looking a little too long, according to Octavia, and this whole extended-eye-contact was definitely not helping.) “We were at this work party,” she started, “some retirement thing for a CEO or some fatcat or something, I dunno,” she rolled her eyes, and her hands fluttered through the air. He held back a smile. He loved watching Clarke tell stories, her pale hands flashing through the air like birds, her facial expression, normally so stoic, giving away every emotion. “And he’d been acting so cagey all weekend, and I -- being the stupid optimist -- thought he was nervous about asking me to move in or something, and I didn’t think much of it and --” she looked back to Bellamy, who was staring at her with a stupid smile on his face, which he immediately dropped once he realized how idiotically in love he must look. “You’re laughing at me,” she groaned, hiding her face in her hands. “God, this is so embarrassing.”

“No, no, no,” he said, turning to face her on the couch. He gently grabbed  her palms and pulled them away from her face, “I wasn’t laughing. Just, go on, okay?”

She considered their hands for a moment before joining them, interlacing their fingers. He had to refrain from sucking in a surprised breath at the warmth of her fingers, the way her white skin contrasted so beautifully with his. Clarke played with his hands as she spoke, speaking to them instead of looking up. “And the whole time, he’s telling me ‘stand here, I’ll be right back’ or ‘hang on just a sec,’ and eventually I go to find him, and he’s got his arm around this girl this -- this _beautiful_ girl, and she’s got a ring on her finger and --” Clarke’s voice breaks, and Bellamy tightens his grip. “and I stand there like an _idiot_ , waiting for him to tell me she’s his friend or his sister or his cousin or something, and he just --” she laughs that same dry, joyless laugh, “he just looks so _terrified_ , like I’ve got a bayonet under his chin --” (Bellamy smiles at that particular image, which she no doubt picked up from his vernacular) “and then --” she chokes on another sob, and he wants to reach out and hold her again, but the words are stumbling out of her mouth like she can barely hold them in. “She _introduces him to me_. Like, ‘my name is Raven Reyes and this is my fiancé Finn Collins,’ and -- and she had _no idea_ who I was and Finn stood there like a _tool_ doing _nothing_ and I just --” She falls quiet and rubs her thumbs back and forth over Bellamy’s. He waits for her to finish. “I ran. I had to get out of there.”

“Clarke --” Bellamy tried to respond in the short silence, but Clarke spoke over him.

“I know it was cowardly and I should have stuck up for myself and he probably didn’t even tell her who I was and it was just --” he could barely understand her, she spoke so quickly. Tears streamed down her face as he reached for her, pulling her down onto the couch with him. “It was just horrible,” she sobbed, wrapping her arms around his torso and burying her face in his chest.

Bellamy held her and let her cry as he rubbed small circles on her lower back, making soothing sounds and reassuring her. “It’s alright, princess,” he whispered, over and over again. “you’re gonna be alright.” They lay there for a while, Bellamy on his back with Clarke laying on top of him, arms squeezing the other tight, legs intertwined. It was difficult for him to remember this was just for Clarke’s comfort -- with her in his arms, he could almost believe she was his.

“I’m sorry,” she sniffled eventually.

Neither of them moved, and Bellamy hoped she didn’t notice his heart thumping underneath her ear. “What for?”

He felt the tension in the silence grow, but Clarke didn’t loosen her hold. “I don’t normally… do this,” she responded,  her voice small and painfully childish.

Bellamy chuckled, the sound vibrating pleasantly through Clarke’s body. “You don’t have to apologize,” he said, pressing a kiss to her hair. “I’ve seen you cry before.”

“I forget,” she muttered, pressing her forehead into his sternum, “No one else does.”

He stiffened. “What?”

He felt her smile against his chest. “You’re surprised?”

He kept his gaze firmly on the ceiling, attempting to sort through the rush of thoughts flooding his brain.He always thought of Clarke as emotional, the way she always busted into his apartment, ranting and waving and occasionally screaming into pillows, but he remembered the way she acted around their friends, sarcastic and defensive and periodically surly, and the lines began to draw themselves. “I mean -- what about Finn? or Octavia? or Wells?” he asked, refusing to believe that they were anywhere near that close, even after a year of friendship.

Clarke shrugged, an odd motion in their current position. “Wells, maybe. When we were younger, but not anymore.” She picked at the hem of his shirt. “They think I’m --” her words hung in the charged air. “They think I’ve got my shit together, I guess.” she tried to sound humorous, but instead her voice was tinged with a sort of melancholy. “Octavia called me superwoman, the other day.” she chuckled softly. “If only they knew how wrong they were.”

“I think you’re pretty super,” Bellamy joked. Clarke smiled and shifted her grip, accidentally pushing her thumbs into Bellamy’s armpits. He jerked and cursed loudly, feeling his face heat up as she laughed. He felt dread settle in his stomach at the thought of what she was about to do.

“Oh my god!” she shouted, “You’re ticklish!” She pulled herself upwards, leaning all her weight on her hands, and hovered over him. Her hair fell around them, closing him in, smelling strongly of his shampoo and faintly of her blackberry perfume. The dread dissipated in favor of  an odd, heavy anticipation in his chest. His eyes flicked toward her lips, but before he could do anything stupid, like kiss that ridiculous smile off her face, he slipped his hands to either side of her waist and pinched her sides. Clarke yelped and slid off the couch onto the floor.

“Jesus, are you okay?” Bellamy cried, sitting up. “Princess, I’m sorry. God, are you alright?” he leaned over to check on her, but she surged up and landed on his legs, running her fingers ruthlessly up and down  his sides. She laughed along with him, but stayed stubbornly in his lap. “Clarke!” he choked out, attempting to push her off, “Babe, stop!”

She stopped dead, cheeks flushed, breathing heavily, with Bellamy’s wrists pinned on either side of his head. “What did you just call me?”

His voice caught in his throat as they stared at each other, barely a breath apart. He licked his lips, not missing the way her eyes caught on his mouth and dragged over his jawline, finally settling on his again. “I --” Words eluded his searching tongue, Clarke’s burning eyes and heaving chest scattering all coherent thought. “I’m sorry,” he breathed, the crooked smile on his face demeaning all sentiment.

“Don’t be.” She answered against his lips, her her hands sliding from his wrists to cup his face. For a moment, Bellamy froze, shocked and unsure and a little confused, but then Clarke wound her fingers through his hair and all sense of logic disappeared. He smoothed his hands down her sides, banding his arms around her waist; her tongue swept out over his lips, demanding entrance, and he granted it, his hands slipping under the hem of her t-shirt. Clarke shivered as his callused fingers trailed up her spine, and he let every sense absorb her intoxicating presence in his arms. Her hair fell around them in a blonde curtain, her hands soft and warm against his face, every brush of skin on skin setting Bellamy on fire. He’d wanted this for so long, and now she was here, in his lap, kissing him.

 

 _ **SHIT.**_ Kissing him, after breaking up with Finn. After breaking up with Finn, who _cheated on her._ Bellamy jerked backwards, missing her lips even after they chased after his own. “Clarke --” he croaked, his gravelly voice low and coarse and absolutely wrecked.

“Please don’t talk.” She leaned in again and he ducked away reluctantly. Dropping his forehead against her collarbone, he sighed, his thumbs stroking back and forth over the small of her back.

“Clarke, we can’t,” he whispered, shutting his eyes as her nails scratched lightly against his scalp, her fingers carding through his hair.

“Bellamy…” Tugging his head up, she pressed their foreheads together. “I need this,” she sighed, her breath hot against his lips. “I need you.”

He wanted nothing more than to pick her up and carry her to his bedroom and make her understand how much more she needed him, rather than that cold, cheating bastard, but she was heartbroken and muddled and she was _Clarke_ , and if he did this… everything would change. There would be no more late nights in front of old 60s movies, no more stove s’mores, no more pizza nights and pool games at Grounders, nothing but awkward silences and empty space and a broken possibility.

Suddenly, he pushed her off and tore himself away, leaving her curled on the couch with her arms around her ankles. Bellamy scrubbed a hand over his face and paced back and forth in front of the television. “I won’t do this,” he said, hating the words. And then, more to himself than to her, “Not like this.” He sat on the window seat, leaning his elbows on his knees and resting his head in his hands. “You --” he started, flinching when his rough voice pierced the growing silence. “You have no idea how much I want to --because _God_ , I want to -- but I won’t --” his knuckles went white as he wound his fingers through his hair, but he pulled his head up, making himself look at her, making himself say the overdue words. “I love you, Clarke.” His heart dropped to his toes as he said the words, waiting for shock and revulsion and angry yelling, but getting only stunned silence in return. She stared at him from the couch, curled in on herself like a scared kitten, watching him with blue eyes big as saucers, lips slightly parted in surprise. “I love you,” he continued,standing and returning to pace in front of the window “but I won’t do this for you, because you’re upset about Finn and you don’t mean any of it and you’ll regret it tomorrow --”

“Wrong.” The word was little more than a whisper, but it stopped Bellamy in his tracks.

“What?” He stood in front of the open window, his curls blowing slightly in the night breeze. She hadn’t moved, still frozen on the couch with her knees tucked under chin.

“You’re wrong,” she said quietly, her eyes ablaze.

“You --” bewilderment plastered itself over his features.

“I meant it.” She seemed to only realize it as the words fell out of her mouth, her face settling into that stony, belligerent expression he loved so much.

“What?” he asked, hope rising unbidden in his chest.

“I meant it,” she repeated, picking her chin up and letting her eyes settle on his. Gazes locked, neither dared speak for a moment, cautious in the tenuous quiet. “For so long,” she began, “I have felt so loved. And I always thought -- I always thought it was because of Finn.” His name hung oddly in the air, tasted horrible in her mouth. “But I show up here, at two in the goddamn morning, sobbing, and you’re not angry or bitter or upset; you just offer me your shower and your clothes and you listen to me cry and hold me and this whole time --”  He held his breath, waiting for her to finish. “Bellamy,” she sighed, “It should have been you.” Even as she continued talking, he crossed back to where she sat on the couch and sat next to her again. “It should have been you, and I’m sorry,” she said, staring at her hands. Bellamy took one of them in both of his, smoothing his thumbs over her knuckles. “I’m sorry, because I spent so long loving someone else and you’ve -- you’ve done everything for me and you’re amazing and it really should have been --” her sentence ended when he kissed her, smiling against her lips. Bellamy let go of her hand and wrapped his arms around her, pushing her back onto the couch. She responded for a moment before stopping him with a hand on his chest. “I need --”

Bellamy pulled away, bumping their noses together with a smile. “Time,” he finished, “I understand.” He knew he should let her up, give her the bed, sleep on the couch, let her figure everything out, but she was warm and solid underneath him, with her strong blue eyes and her soft smile, and he wanted nothing more than to stay exactly where he was. Clarke’s hands came up and traced the line of his jaw, the slope of his cheekbones, every freckle on the bridge of his nose. He chuckled, the sound resonating in Clarke’s bones. “What are you doing?”

She pushed her thumb over his mouth. “Shhh, I’m taking an opportunity.”

“Because you’ve never touched me before,” he said sarcastically, rolling his eyes.

She poked him gently in the cheek. “Not like this,” she said softly, “Now shush and let me examine your bone structure.”

Leaning into her touch, he shut his eyes as her fingers smoothed over his forehead. “You’re such an artist, Princess.” Clarke only yawned in response. “A very sleepy princess,” he laughed, finally getting off her and stretching. “You’ve had a rough day, you need to sleep.”

She nodded and rolled onto her side, facing the back of the couch. “Night.”

Bellamy smiled, shook his head, and picked her up easily, laughing at her yelp of surprise. One arm tightened around her shoulders, the other at her knees, and he grinned as she laced her fingers behind his neck, glaring at him. “I meant the bed, Clarke,” he said, loving the way her cheeks pinked at the words.

She laid her head on his shoulder, biting her smile. “As long as you’re staying with me.”

He stepped over Andromeda, who’d fallen asleep on the floor, and took her down the hall to his room. “Well,” he answered, “If you insist.”

*****

Bellamy woke up to Clarke’s hair in his face and her back pressed up against his chest. Sun streamed down through the blinds, making stripes across the gray bedspread and setting Clarke’s curls aglow. Andromeda ruined the peaceful moment by leaping onto the bed and pushing her cold, wet nose into Clarke’s face.

“Gah, Andy!” Clarke cried, jerking backward and jostling Bellamy. Andy panted eagerly and licked both of them repeatedly. “Bellamy!” Clarke laughed, squirming as Andy nosed at her face and jumped all over the both of them. “Get control of your dog!” He groaned and reluctantly let go of Clarke’s waist, attempting to push Andy off the bed without sitting up.

“Not working,” he groaned, letting his arm drop over Clarke again, smiling against the back of her neck as Andy began to whine. Clarke elbowed him in the gut to get him to move, and Bellamy sat up with an ‘oof,’ swinging his legs off the bed and trying to lead Andy out of the room. She wouldn’t move, instead just glancing between Clarke and Bellamy with huge brown eyes and a sad, jowly face.

“Andy, come on,” he said, his morning voice all low and scratchy. The dog didn’t move, only snuggling closer to Clarke where she still lay on the bed. Bellamy laughed as he realized what was going on. “She’s waiting for you,” he chuckled, loving the long-suffering look on Clarke’s face.

“Andyyyy,” Clarke whined, pushing the golden retriever’s rump fruitlessly. “You are the worst dog ever,” she moaned, hiding her head under the pillow. “You won’t let me sleep.”

Bellamy braced his arms against the doorframe, loving every second of it. “She’s not gonna leave until you do.”

Clarke pulled the pillow off her face and glared at him, curls wild, frizz catching the morning light like a halo. “I hate both of you, you know that?” He nodded, smiling as she swung her legs out of bed and winced as her feet hit the cold wood floor. Andy hopped off the bed and darted between it and the door, nails clicking, tongue lolling. Clarke padded out of the room, twisting her unruly hair into a bun and grumbling under her breath.

He watched her go, leaning his shoulder against the door and slipping his hands in his pockets. “You have to take her for a walk,” he said, unable to keep the grin off his face.

Clarke stumbled toward the coffee pot, waving him off. “You’re funny,” she said, every word an annoyed growl.

“I’m serious.” Andy sat down next to the coatrack where her leash hung, wagging her tail. Bellamy sauntered into the kitchen and gestured to his dog. “She won’t go if you’re still here.” All he received was stony silence, but Clarke, here, in his clothes, with his dog in his kitchen; the sight nearly filled him with glee.

“I am not going out in public in this,” she said, her gravelly voice only slightly desperate, “I am wearing _your clothes_.” She crossed her arms under her chest and leaned back against the counter next to the coffee pot, staring at her bare toes.

“I dunno,” He said, crossing to her and placing a hand on either side of her hips, leaning into her fiery gaze. “I think you look pretty hot in my clothes.” His proximity softened her sharp, undercaffeinated edges, and she couldn’t help but run her hands up his arms, spreading her fingers over her shoulders.

“Bellamy?” she breathed against his lips.

“Yeah?”

She smiled and bit her lip, rising on her tiptoes to meet him. “Screw time.” He grinned and kissed her softly, every movement less frantic than the night before, his arms curling gently around her waist. Her hands came up to twist through his hair, ignoring the morning breath in favor of enjoying every single inch of Bellamy’s body pressed against hers. It was too easy to sink into his touch, let him take everything away and lift her off her feet, make Finn a distant memory or a horrible dream. Finally, he pulled away, leaning his forehead against hers with that incredible grin.

“Clarke?” he asked, a laugh rising in his voice.

“Yeah?” she whispered, breathless.

On cue, Andromeda barked impatiently from the door, leash in her mouth. Clarke laughed and disentangled herself, crossing to the door. “Alright, Andy,” she said, reaching for Bellamy’s coat, “Let’s go for a walk.”

Bellamy followed her out the door, grabbing a sweatshirt from the back of the couch.  He slung an arm around her shoulders as they went down the stairs and stepped out into the humid morning air, Andy trotting out in front of them, panting happily. Clarke leaned her head on his shoulder as they walked, and he couldn’t help but feel ridiculously happy as she burrowed into him. There was so much left to figure out, what with Finn and Raven and their friends and Clarke’s no doubt muddled feelings, but that morning felt nothing less than perfect.

 

**Author's Note:**

> *dumps this in your lap and runs* I'M SO SORRY 
> 
> Kudos are smiles and comments are hugs and any feedback is good feedback
> 
> (also I may have forgotten some italics there was a lot of emphasis in this)


End file.
